


One Killer Evening

by V6ilill



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Action, Attempt at Humor, Dark Comedy, Evil Plans, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Illusions, Kinda, Magic, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Plans, general cringe, unwanted romantic attention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V6ilill/pseuds/V6ilill
Summary: “So, to reiterate: you two decided to brew rat poison in a juice bottle, and thereby accidentally poisoned an Inquisitor?”
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Original Character & Original Character
Kudos: 2





	One Killer Evening

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Valentine's day, or, rather, the Estonian derivative thereof, which is literally called friend-day (sõbrapäev). take that, you love-obsessed horndogs!  
> please tell me how much my writing sucks in the comments

Acerbius Near turned his gaze away from the document he was faking, letting his eyes roam over the tiny rented room. To call it an apartment was generous, especially after the man’s exposure to high society. On the little counter in front of the barely-functioning freezer unit were two cups of food paste, one half-empty steel box, and a lone bottle of synth-juice. Within the bottle brewed a potent rat poison, its smell, taste and color barely different from the juice it had replaced. While Acerbius and his colleague Manfred were indeed brewing it for the intended purpose, it was supposedly a rather simple poison to practice on. Everyone needed some basic poisoning techniques, especially in the kind of profession Acerbius had unwillingly found himself in.

“I hope you’ll sleep tonight,” his boss strode out of the (strangely spacious) bathroom, her hand-me-down power armor whirring quietly “Now, I know it shouldn’t be a problem with your woman away, but the way you’re looking at these papers . . .”

“Ma’am, there is no need to extoll the virtues of a six-hour sleep cycle to me,” said Acerbius, though with his tendency to fixate on every little detail, the declaration sounded more and more like a lie “I am simply diligently preparing these proclamations.”

“The toll agency here is crewed by drunk rejects, I’ve heard. How hard can it be to fool a front desk lady on her fifth cup of recaf?” the Inquisitor shrugged to herself, looking over the counter. She grabbed the bottle, screwing the lid on. “All it takes is a well-placed pencil sharpener and swift reflexes.”

Acerbius had a distinct feeling he didn’t want to ask how exactly that went down. He’d seen stranger desires among the heretical.

“Remember to send in the footage before the papers!” his mistress reminded him, kicking the door open with her heavily armored boot “Bye, seeya in the morning!”

“Enjoy the party, my lady,” Acerbius cast his gaze to the paper.

“I certainly will,” she cackled “Unlike everyone else!”

Ah yes. Acerbius had the pleasure of being employed by someone who not only knew how to breakdance, but often attempted so in power armor. The result was at once mindbogglingly weird and terrible to behold. He did not envy the local nobility on this night.

The room descended into blessed silence, broken only by the scrabbling of the (thankfully not yet giant) rats and the scratching of a stylus.

That is, until the door was subjected to terrible abuse once again.

“Do none of you know what a door handle is for?” Acerbius lifted his gaze.

“No requirement for care when handling simple items,” Manfred von Neumann droned “If this unit of door owned electronic lock,” he gestured with a mechadendrite “aforementioned protest would be considered.”

Katerina Kiselyeva said nothing, beelining for the cooling unit and its supply of vodka. Acerbius sighed.

“Visual unit planted,” Manfred continued, maneuvering closer to Acerbius “Now able to aid in false documentation.”

“I need you to write something plausible in this form,” the younger man passed him a slip or paper “It’s a decoy. I’ll write it like normal people would on the actual thing.”

“Space for errors,” Manfred fetched a quill “Useful.”

Acerbius continued looking over the rest of the paper, lamenting the lack of a typewriter. But that would’ve been too conspicuous since the technology was not widespread upon this world.

“Rat poison brewing initiative successful?” Manfred broke the silence.

“As good as professional,” Acerbius boasted “It’s on the counter, in the bottle.”

“No bottle located on counter unit,” the robed man declared without even looking back.

“What?” Acerbius craned his neck to look over Manfred’s shoulder “Where’d it go?”

“Katerina!” the older man demanded sharply “Have you removed bottle from counter unit in recent past?”

“There was no bottle on the counter, smartass!” she shouted back, sipping on what was unmistakably vodka.

Acerbius racked his brain, wondering where else the synth-juice could have went.

“Did the Inquisitor take it or what?” Katerina scowled, steadily acquainting herself with alcoholism.

“. . . oh dear,” said Acerbius “She must’ve been looking for something to drink before the banquet because of her alcohol intolerance.”

Manfred’s yellow-brown eyes widened. Despite looking like a metal septapus of nightmares, he hadn’t yet upgraded those.

“Come on, there’s no way she wouldn’t have known it’s poison,” the woman threw her hands up “She’s too paranoid to even say what she’s doing out there!”

“Yet me and Manfred have not discussed the project while near her,” Acerbius began sweating.

“Why not?” Katerina frowned.

“Considered unnecessary,” Manfred admitted, twirling the quill in his hands.

“The Inquisitor spent most of her time in the toilet, doing, uh, power armor maintenance,” Acerbius supplied “It was very noisy.”

“Wrong location for task,” Manfred cringed visibly “Moist. Cramped.”

“Tell that to her, not us,” Katerina huffed “So, you think you two geniuses accidentally poisoned our boss?”

Manfred creaked guiltily, setting the quill down.

“. . . may the Emperor forgive us,” Acerbius felt a cold clump gathering in his stomach.

“You should worry more about the Inquisitor’s forgiveness,” the woman advised “And our team doctor’s, who isn’t here to consult. I hope that’s not a hurdle in your relationship.”

“That’s the least of my worries right now,” the scribe prodded at his damp collar “What, exactly, are we going to do about this?”

“Inform Inquisitor very rapidly,” Manfred suggested.

“You’d just tell her you accidentally poisoned her?” Katerina raised a sceptical eyebrow with practiced precision.

“What else could we tell her? Manufacture a conspiracy?” Acerbius squeaked “She’s too paranoid to fall for something like that!”

“Then how could she have possibly not known what she took?” the woman set her bottle down with a resounding clank.

“Because she trusts that I was keeping an eye on the situation?” Acerbius grew paler by the minute “And that my awareness would be enough to prevent any killers or the like from getting in?”

“So, to reiterate: you two decided to brew rat poison in a juice bottle, and thereby accidentally poisoned an Inquisitor?” Katerina asked.

Manfred and Acerbius nodded in unison.

“ . . . I don’t even know whether she is more screwed than we,” the psyker sighed “And just when the medic is away! I am surrounded by geniuses.”

“Let’s go warn our boss,” the scribe suggested urgently, packing the documents.

“I think you two are the only ones who will be warning anyone,” Katerina declared “I didn’t do anything, and thus, am entitled to my beauty sleep.”

“We won’t be allowed inside,” Acerbius discovered, combing over what he knew of the local traditions “It requires a red-clearance passport, at least.”

“Means of recreation currently unavailable,” Manfred caught on “Katerina, are you capable of disguising two/three entities simultaneously?”

“I am capable of much more,” the woman crossed her arms “Is there really no other way to get in besides me glamouring us up?”

“Not that I know of,” Acerbius wiped his forehead “Good thing we decided to brew rat poison and not Item 39, eh Manfred?”

“Item 39 does not match current capabilities. Creation would have been impossible,” the man confirmed.

“When I suggested you get a girlfriend, I didn’t mean for you to shag the team medic and learn to brew poisons with your friend while technically not off-duty,” Katerina pinched her nose “Isn’t that unprofessional, Glorified Typewriter?”

“Not significantly more unprofessional than your frequent copulations, certainly,” Manfred rose to his friend’s defense.

Katerina groaned.

Manfred cast a questioning glance at the heap of half-faked documents (well, “documents”) Acerbius was stuffing into his bag. “I don’t think this room is secure enough,” the scribe explained “I’m not leaving my work without supervision.”

“Well, then I won’t be helping you find those papers when we inevitably lose them,” Katerina turned to leave, ready to subject the door to another round of abuse.

“Don’t-” Acerbius began, but Katerina kicked open the door with a resounding bang “Do you know anything of subtlety?!”

“What subtlety? We are leaving with Manfred!” the psyker pointed with her thumb. On second thought, a large, robed amalgam of flesh and metal was a rather blatantly unusual sight.

“I am capable of greath stealth,” the man protested, fooling exactly no one.

The two murderous assholes and a walking typewriter quickly found the nearest elevator. There was technically a queue, but none of the locals really protested when getting stared down by a six and a half foot walking arsenal. Before Acerbius could even recall the proper activation prayer for a twelve-person elevator going up, Manfred began chanting something in binary.

“That took faster than expected,” Acerbius noted.

“Exactly. That is the intended use of Binary Cant,” Manfred nodded.

“You machine-fuckers and your cheat codes,” Katerina sighed.

Manfred swelled with smugness.

“Don’t get so cocky. All I need to move an elevator is wave my hands a little,” the woman bragged.

“Funny how I’ve never seen you do it,” the scribe raised his eyebrows dispassionately.

“Of course you haven’t, you can’t even tell which end a lasgun shoots from,” the woman snorted.

“I have never seen you accomplish any aforementioned feats as well,” Manfred interjected.

“Well, it takes too much effort,” Katerina made a dismissive gesture.

“So you can’t actually levitate an elevator,” Acerbius deduced.

“I mean, I can, theoretically, I’ve never done it though I could, but it’s usually impractical anyway, and besides, don’t you have more important things to worry about, Master Poisoner?” the woman declared.

Acerbius gulped audibly. His career prospects were looking bleaker by the minute.

After a brief trek through the streets (though given the density of buildings, “street” was quite a strong word), the duo of thugs and a once and future bureaucrat caught a surprisingly unrusted streetcar. The tickets didn’t cost that much, all things considered. Nothing like the inflation of Vigilance-3 Local Currency, which shot straight into orbit even on the good years.

The banquet, while undoubtedly a high-society event, wasn’t as prestigious as it made itself to be. The chipping gold plating of the door and the guard’s shoddy laspistol that might have once worked properly proved that beyond doubt.

“Unacceptable maintenance of main weapon,” Manfred pointed, creaking menacingly “Will not fire without jamming in such state.”

“Don’t lecture where our enemies can hear,” Katerina reprimanded.

“No confirmed hostiles within sight radius yet,” the man shrugged “Like I mentioned previously, the pistol is in unacceptable condition. Liberal application of sanctified oil required.”

“I’ll show you how much my gun ‘will not fire’!” the guard proved to be less deaf than was usual for his profession “Which one of you lowlives is lecturing me?”

Manfred turned his bulk towards the ‘security’ personnel, bending down to approach the stranger at eye level. “I,” he pointed with a mechadendrite, glinting silver in the street lumens “have lectured you. Do you object to my behavior?”

“. . . no, actually,” the guard proved his competence beyond the shadow of a doubt “P-please continue, sir.”

“If current conversation inappropriate, I may cease,” Manfred continued hanging in the hapless sod’s face “Knowledge of local customs limited at the moment. All critical information has been conveyed already.”

“Stop traumatizing him,” Acerbius sighed “Mister, we have urgent business inside.”

As soon as Manfred moved from the guard’s face, the local’s boldness grew a thousandfold. “Well, gimme your credentials, then!” he demanded, suddenly the epitome of bravery “None get inside House Charbonneau’s main residence without a permit!”

Katerina offered him a blank piece of paper. “Here’s our permit,” she held the empty sheet aloft for all to see.

“I see,” the guard declared, clearly seeing the wrong things “Right this way, honored guests!” he gestured to the door “The elevator to the dining floor is to the left.”

“Which floor is the dining floor, mister?” Acerbius asked, shuffling past the guard.

“Seventh, I think!” he replied cheerfully “Have a good evening!”

“Die in a ditch,” Katerina muttered after the door slammed right into her unprotected back.

“That’s a bit too harsh,” Acerbius whispered “Act natural. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and for the love of the Emperor, don’t-”

A servant bumped into him, rushing past like a blur. “Excuse me!” the teenager stumbled, then ran right away.

Her “accident” fooled exactly no one. Acerbius reached out for his handbag that was no longer there. Deciding against starting a commotion, Katerina reached out, her face briefly lit white seemingly from the inside, and someone yelped in pain behind the corner.

“Find our boss, I’ll catch that brat,” Katerina declared, falling into a sprint.

“I am quicker-” Manfred protested.

“Prove it, then!” the woman called out “My tally is still higher than yours!”

Ah yes. The kill tally. Acerbius was glad he didn’t have to contribute to that.

With both his teammates gone, the scribe proceeded into the elevator. Damn the latest fashion that abhorred backpacks! The servant kid wouldn’t have managed to snag that.

Katerina reached the girl soon enough, far sooner than Manfred. No amount of preaching about the superiority of the machine would make those augments any lighter. The teenager was limping down the stairs, her ankle twisted like it had been smashed. Well, it had been, but Katerina had not intended it to be so bone-shattering. Oh well. At least it slowed the kid down.

The limping teenager, seeing two professional killers approaching her with great speed, did what most teenage girls in her place would do and volunteered the stolen goods.

“Ma’am, please, I-I was just lookin’ for credits!” she threw her hands up, handbag dangling from shaking fingers “I swear, I didn’t-”

Just as Katerina reached for the stolen container, a janitor servitor merrily cleaning the stairwell revealed itself to be neither a servitor, nor merrily cleaning. The man shot twice at Manfred, knocking the cyborg back, and grabbed the bag from right under Katerina’s nose.

“Твою мать! Again?!” the woman swore “Hey, bitch! I’ll cut off your dick and shove it up your ass!”

“The course of action will prove exceptionally time-consuming,” said Manfred, barely fazed by getting shot twice “Inadvisable to perform.”

“Let’s try shadowing him,” Katerina pointed to the distant figure, unlucky teenager completely forgotten.

“Is your glamour sufficient?” Manfred wondered “Neither person here exhibits true stealth capabilities.” Funny how just a few minutes earlier, the man had been insisting he was quite capable of being subtle.

“You can walk on walls, the question is irrelevant,” Katerina whispered back.

That was how Katerina, sanctioned psyker, acolyte of the Inquisition, found herself hanging from at least five different arms in a horizontal position, watching a group of cultists gather under a street lumen. The handbag was positioned right between them, denying Manfred’s fervent desire to improve his aim with grenades. Which wasn’t that bad of a situation, actually, because that meant Katerina could score a higher tally than him. Now, if only she could actually concentrate while being dangled from an extremely unsafe height by flimsy little mechadendrites that she most certainly hadn’t seen get snapped by a particularly sharp shortsword . . .

The cultists, formerly the picture of unity, recognized each other as slavering, murderous creatures and began shooting.

“The last individual to remain should be questioned,” Manfred noted, hanging back to watch.

Katerina grunted, focused on maintaining the illusion. Good thing her buddy wasn’t getting involved. More kills for her, that way. More reason to keep her around, that way.

After the last man standing had executed his comrades in heresy, Manfred leapt down, letting Katerina fall. She grunted, rolling with the impact, hoping it wouldn’t bruise. Manfred meanwhile took advantage of the cultist’s stun at the sight of the horrible monsters he’d been fighting turning back into his friends and allies. The man was easily restrained, offering a token protest. Not that kicking or punching (or even shooting, for that matter) Manfred, a walking arsenal made (for now only mostly) of metal, would have had any effect.

“First Andreas and Juno turn into those . . . things, now I get captured by a tin can?!” the cultist muttered to himself “What next, the Inquisition?”

“Yes,” said Manfred and Katerina in unison.

“I do not contain statistically significant amount of tin to justify aforementioned nickname,” Manfred added, one long, serpentine arm quickly reaquiring the stolen container.

“Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse . . .” the man groaned preemptively.

“It can still get worse,” Katerina declared, retrieving a large, serrated switchblade “the Inquisitor isn’t here yet.”

“When did my life go so wrong?” the captive murmured, gaze resolutely avoiding the torture knife.

“Twelve minutes ago, at the point where your ally acquired nearby handbag,” Manfred supplied helpfully.

“Move our guest to that alcove,” Katerina pointed with the knife “No need to disturb the passersby.”

Manfred carried the struggling, writhing cultist over to the niche, clamping a decidedly unpleasant-looking arm simile over his mouth.

“Now, you’ll answer our questions,” Katerina told the man as soon as he was in place, demonstratively levitating the implement of horrible death “Slowly, intelligibly and truthfully. If I think you’re lying, you’ll be left alive to entertain our boss.”

“Terrible of a fate, with 100% certainty. Even my present colleague finds methods of joint employer excessive,” Manfred declared, adopting his friendliest tone of voice.

Well, as friendly a voice as a roughly cancer-shaped blob of tentacle fetish could. The “good Arbiter, bad Arbiter” routine didn’t work very well when one participant was a moving wall of gun and the other a vodka-buffed, battle-hardened Ru’shan with resting bitch face and yellow lenses for eyes.

“First question,” the woman put the knife to the victim’s arm, helpfully held in place by Manfred “How many of your cult are there?”

“Uh,” said the cultist, demonstrating the famed reliability of human memory “We’re not a cult, you disgusting-!”

“Wrong answer,” Katerina cut him off with a well-placed stab through the palm of the hand. She dragged the switchblade in a vaguely circular motion, grinding against bone. “How many people does your ‘Liberation Front’ have?”

“You will feel lesser pain upon answering truthfully,” Manfred patted his prisoner on the shoulder, accomplishing nothing but to make the poor sod more uncomfortable.

“Well . . .” the cultist mumbled, grimacing from the knife still embedded in his hand. Katerina moved it sideways to encourage him. “Augh! Damn- alright, alright, I think there’s about two hundred or so that I’ve seen when we gather. But the population supports us! You should leave while you still can!”

“If they love you so much, how come no one’s coming to your aid?” Katerina raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“You see,” the prisoner began, then realized he had nothing of meaning to tell his sworn enemies.

“Currently observing nothing of interest,” Manfred stated “Your situation different?”

“Stop wasting timе,” Katerina commanded “Second question: where exactly is your base?”

“Bold of you to think I’d tell you,” the man stated.

“Bold of you to think you won’t eventually,” Katerina retorted “Now answer my question!”

“I’ll never-” he began, before Katerina cut him off with a well-placed knife between the bones of the other palm “-never-”

“I can do this all night,” the woman warned.

“Fortunately for you, the Inquisitor has yet to arrive,” Manfred consoled.

The prisoner grimaced, trying to jerk away from the knife. He failed, just like every time before. Katerina sighed at the display of futile resistance.

“Where do you gather?” the woman continued “I need an address.”

The man struggled a bit like the devoted wrongdoer that he was, but ultimately let slip not just the location, but also the approximate size, current protection measures, and interior decoration style of the evil base, sprinkled with pleas to join the glorious revolution  
(we’re-not-selling-your-souls-to-eldritch-evils-no-really-please-ignore-the-eye-growing-on-my-shoulder edition).

The cultist got exactly what he deserved: a quick death. Manfred mutilated the corpse into nice, unrecognizable red pie filling (the kind where you can never be sure whether you’re eating fresh rat or the neighbors) that ended up in the nearest waste receptacle, and off the two mass murderers left, meaning to merrily murder many more. The red paste would surely prove a nutritious snack to whichever impoverished worker rummaged within that trash can first. Good thing the man hadn’t seemed too thoroughly mutated.

Unfortunately, the lower levels, where the Liberation Front supposedly gathered, were teeming with multitudes of lowlives used to worse things than a mostly-unarmored woman and a thinking gun turret. Instead of a terrible death, they saw a terrific profit.

“Maybe we should-” Katerina began, before suddenly finding herself in a sudden-onset firing range “-be less conspicuous.”

“Good plan,” said Manfred “Attention, locals: what you are seeing is a lightpost. Please move along.”

The locals inexplicably didn’t believe the 100% real and genuine lightpost, and opened fire instead.

Katerina dove behind her coworker, trying to focus. She counted at least fourteen thugs in front of Manfred, and six behind. Nothing unworkable.

Six trained killers took aim at one random worker wearing nothing but a robe, shoes and jacket. Before a single one of them so much as pulled the trigger, they suddenly found each other to be a grave threat to their well-being. A shootout still ensued, though with all the wrong targets.

Katerina looked back, watching Manfred shred the gangers, as well as some opportunistic (read: suicidally overconfident) reinforcements. A grenade sailed elegantly his way and Katerina rolled out of the way, taking the opportunity to throw a building decoration onto the sole survivor of the scuffle she had started. The grenade’s explosion jarred Katerina, making her ears ring, worsening her fatigue. Yet Manfred was barely knocked back, continuing to fire his multitude of gun implements, barely winded. Unlike her, he didn’t need to sleep every day.

Katerina was being outdone in every regard. That would not do.

She cut through the weariness, reaching out to throw the very pavement at the remainder of the thugs. She reached, grasping-

-and something reached back, entwining itself around her mind, knocking, knocking-

-she wouldn’t let it in, wouldn’t, had to pull back, had to- to-

-

Acerbius exited the elevator, straightening his no doubt overly plain robes. None of the guards stopped him, since if he had gotten inside, surely he must’ve been invited, right? Clearly, the organizer was as competent as the late Planetary Governore Monrose - after getting run over by a train, that is.

The banquet hall had enormous doors, useful for exactly nothing other than displaying wealth and the poor spending of said wealth. Acerbius inspected them, looking for any way to enter relatively unnoticed. There was no need to completely sabotage . . . whatever his boss was trying to accomplish. Not that he was feeling mounting unease at never being sure what, exactly, he was doing with his life, or anything.

Then Acerbius had a convenient realization: within all likelihood, the Inquisitor would be in the ballroom. She could never pass up an opportunity to horrify people with an inappropriate dance or two. Not that she was taking inspiration from heretics, or anything. It was far more banal than that: no one ever thought to lecture an Inquisitor on how she was dancing. The scribe’s current (and hopefully not last) employer took full advantage of that fact.

After stopping a servant for directions, Acerbius was complimented on being fashionably late, and escorted to the ballroom. Before the carved doors of imported blue oak (clearly someone within this family had a hard-on for pimped out doors), the man took a calming deep breath. He knew the manners of the local nobility quite well and would not be taken unawares. He wasn’t dressed too shabbily, was adequately groomed (perhaps even fashionably disheveled), and knew everything he needed about the world’s traditions.

The servant slipped in with a platter of snacks, Acerbius following behind. The fashion was rather simplistic - the scribe fit right in. His eyes roamed the hall, searching for a certain attention-grabbing figure in power armor. She was not there.

“Excuse me, good madam,” he turned towards the nearest actual guest “Would you happen to know where the esteemed Inquisitor is? I have . . . a matter to discuss with her.”

“To ‘discuss’ with her?” the woman smiled “Her reputation is far-reaching, for certain, but I can offer you something even better.”

Ah yes. The Inquisitor’s supposed carnal proclivities, which Acerbius had yet to witness. The only sounds coming from her room at night were snores.

“Gracious madam,” the infiltrator began “You are certainly very interesting to me, and I would love to get to know you better, but my matter with our guest of honor is quite urgent. I’m sure that after that-”

The noble moved her shoulder deftly, letting the short sleeve droop, plunging the neckline even further down. Acerbius reminded himself he had a girlfriend. “There’s no need to hide behind innuendo and metaphor,” she winked, taking the man’s arm “Come now, and you’ll have a truly unforgettable evening.”

Knowing that truly unforgettable evenings usually ended with a variety of inhuman horrors banging on the walls, Acerbius began protesting more vigorously, going beyond the norms of propriety. “Respectfully, madam, my business with her is nothing so base,” he tugged his arm back “It pertains to the Inquisitor’s job, and I would greatly prefer if you let me go.”

“Ah, how enticingly prude,” the local laughed, easily pulling the scribe with her into a side hallway “Do you prefer the 13th or 15th scent? I find the 15th terribly banal, but since you are clearly a man of simple tastes-”

She continued prattling about more and more obscene things, while Acerbius tried his best to politely get a word edgewise. For a culture supposedly based around respectful, even outright submissive requests, the living example of that wasn’t acting quite like that. Was she an outlier? Was she drunk? Was she just that horny?

Was Acerbius’s assumption wrong?

“What trash did you pick up this time, dear niece?” a deep voice cut through the noblewoman’s seductive babbling and the scribe’s futile attempts to remain polite “A blond? How typical.”

“Jealous, aren’t you?” she smiled, showing off all her teeth “Anyone can see that you will never be as successful than I.”

“Listen here, my dear,” the nobleman approached “I have tolerated your extramarital exploits, but this transcends all bounds!”

Acerbius, figuring the time for pleasantries was long over, took the opportunity to wiggle out of his admirer’s grasp. The woman tried to stop him, but her uncle got in the way.

“Don’t look away while I’m talking to you!” the man barked “Niece, I cannot allow this to continue. What will your mother-in-law do to you if she suspects your children are not her grandchildren? Have you heard of-”

Acerbius quickly rounded the corner, losing sight of his admirer. He sighed in relief, straightening his sleeve. After stopping a much less perverse noble with a particularly impressive high collar, the scribe finally gained a solid lead: apparently, the Inquisitor was hanging around the main balcony, the only one where the view wasn’t obscured by the smog.

Acerbius hurriedly thanked the passerby in an appropriate manner (though for some reason, the response wasn’t as the scribe had expected) and left at a brisk pace. Then he realized he hadn’t asked where the balcony was located, and stopped another local. For some reason, Acerbius felt as though he was being followed, but he dismissed the concern. He had far more important things to worry about.

The balcony was quite crowded, most of the guests excitedly conversing about a new construction that could be seen somewhere in the distance. Acerbius’s boss was sitting by the side of the wall in a rather slumped position. Well, as slumped as one could be while sitting in power armor. One of the hip joints looked like it was malfunctioning, too, if Acerbius remembered Manfred’s teachings on the matter correctly. Oh, he’d throw such a fit at the sight.

Before Acerbius could approach his employer, the uncle of his unwanted admirer appeared from behind and roughly grabbed his arm.

“You disgusting lecherous freak,” he addressed Acerbius respectfully “What kind of fool are you to blindly agree with my niece’s every indulgence?!”

“Good sir, I refused her numerous times,” Acerbius began, sweating profusely. His boot knife had nothing on the noble’s ornate pistol.

“Refused? Ha! He didn’t even offer a token protest!” a woman loudly announced to her husband “Ah, back in my day . . .”

So the assessment of what locals considered polite had been off. No big deal, it’s not like Acerbius was in mortal danger or anythi-

“On the good name of House Soudain, I challenge you to a duel!” the overprotective uncle declared, gesticulating with his pistol.

Oops.

-

Manfred examined coworker’s body. Designation=Katerina_Kiselyeva. Unconscious. According to every relevant rule, psykers who short-circuited were to be executed. Manfred examined coworker again, not detecting any present hazards. Statistically unlikely drastic measure was necessary. Coworker might wake up.

Coworker stirred, turning head to the left.

“Good evening,” Manfred offered appropriate greeting “Capable of communicating? Answer if assumption correct.”

“Иди нафиг,” coworker groaned. Upon analysis, words spoken were likely profanity. “Your hand- did I-?”

“Yes,” Manfred provided answer “Do not fret. I have many arms.”

“With that attitude, not for long,” coworker sighed, attempting return to vertical position “Sorry. I overdid myself.” Coworker grimaced, finding apologies unpleasant.

“Apology acceptable,” Manfred offered friendly platitude “Situation not so bad. You are alive, and your tally only fifteen persons lower than mine.”

Coworker put hand to her forehead, likely from headache. Not unusual, given profession.

“Can we now continue?” Manfred inquired.

Coworker processed inquiry. “Give me the bag and scout out the stronghold yourself. Let’s see if the bastard was really telling us the truth.”

“Let me see,” Manfred corrected order. Coworker did not protest correction. “I will document location, including potential access points, surroundings, and outdoor defenses. Satisfactory?”

“Sure,” coworker agreed “You can take pictures, right?”

“Capability present, uncompromised,” Manfred gave confirmation.

“See you around, then,” coworker waved with one arm.

“Good night,” Manfred provided appropriate farewell.

Path to supposed stronghold not very long. Manfred hooked appropriate implements to nearby wall, methodically traversing distance. Pedestrians did not notice what was above. Unaugmented peripheral vision greatly limiting. Manfred found gap between buildings too large for comfortable traversal. Unusual. Manfred removed self from building, climbing down. Skittered over paved road segment, scaled next building. Kept above first row of windows, on lookout for warehouse transformed into cult operation base. Unoriginal. Many before had tried same maneuver.

“What are you, and what are you doing up there?” local person demanded.

“Manfred von Neumann. I am walking. Dirt clogs circuits.”

“It does?” local inquired.

“Depending on circuit,” Manfred answered inquiry concisely.

“Huh,” spoke local, watching Manfred move away.

Journey to address of cult stronghold was not long. Warehouse existed. Was painted black, as cultist had stated. Had one large sliding door in front, one human-sized door in back. Likely contained subterranean passages and/or connected to nearby structures.

Location not very crowded, most persons around currently likely cultists. Ceiling flat, but sturdy. Easy to walk upon. Manfred snapped several pictures from different angles. Task complete.

Manfred detected shipment of material. Destination: warehouse. Occasion deserved documentation. Local man and local woman unloaded box from small vehicle. Vehicle in terrible shape, machine spirit greatly disrespected. Disgusting. Upon zooming in, box revealed as generator component. Inscribed with profane symbols. Badly maintained. Cultists revealed as more and more vile in every passing encounter.

Absolutely awful. Cultists required lesson in respect. Lethal lesson.

Manfred aimed. Stopped, staring at cargo unloading. Mission: gather intelligence, then leave. Lesson to cultists would compromise mission. Yet, lesson required. The continued mistreatment was- grating to behold. Certainly. And- simply so- vile and-

Manfred calmed self before mission could be compromised. Turned back, deactivated peripheral sensors to prevent irrational decisions, and removed self from vicinity of cult base. Cultist would be taught valuable lesson in short order, in any situation.

Manfred left, confident that he would be first to destroy the base. Broken machine spirits would continue suffering in warehouse, but not for long. Not for long.

-

Acerbius stood before an angry nobleman and a loaded gun, wondering where his life had gone so wrong. An excited audience chattered off to the side.

“Good sir, this is but a misunderstanding,” the scribe consoled, raising his arms consolingly.

“You seek the ruination of my House! Face me as a warrior, or die as a coward!” the man waved his gun in Acerbius’s face. Upon closer smelling, the local wasn’t even drunk. “I will not allow you to tempt my niece!”

“Yet you berated her for her behavior,” Acerbius remarked. On second thought, that was a bad idea. His opponent’s eyes bulged grotesquely, the grip on his pistol tightening. The man opened his mouth to escalate the situation, when Acerbius was suddenly reminded his boss was also watching.

“Don’t be so harsh on Matteo,” she spoke in a noticeably strained voice “The actions of House Soudain have long captured my interest, and not just in a recreational sense. Are you really surprised that after your Noella was found with several dogs, I would be so lousy as to not express a professional interest?”

“That was A DAMNED LIE! THEY ARE ALL LYING! IT’S THE XENOS!” the nobleman revealed his true colors as a conspiracy theorist. Acerbius took the opportunity to back away, but the man grabbed him by the arm and held a pistol to his head “THEY RULE OVER US FROM THEIR CLOUD-SPIRES, INJECTING SPONGES INTO OUR BRAINS! Wake up, sheep!”

“Do you even know what a sheep is?” the Inquisitor pondered sarcastically, leaning on the wall. “Don’t worry, I checked the clouds. There’s nothing there but water vapor and carcinogens.”

She looked unwell - well, more unwell than usual. Acerbius’s chest constricted. He was too late. The scribe tried to reach for the knife in his boot, but the local’s grip was too tight, the noble himself too jumpy. The failed infiltrator decided not to escalate the situation further.

“Clearly, you are in league with them!” the man screamed, pointing his gun towards the Inquisitor. Every breath he took served to further tank House Soudain’s reputation. What a stellar relative to have.

The Inquisitor laughed, making a dismissive gesture with one gauntleted hand. On second glance, she was throwing something.

The nobleman looked up. Acerbius followed his gaze a second after, cold pooling in his chest. The throwing star embedded in one of the many incense burners that hung from the ceiling, trying and failing to make the party a more pious endeavor. The long and narrow shaft creaked forebodingly, swaying from the impact. Acerbius almost thought- but nothing happened.

The exemplar of House Soudain stepped away from under it, dragging Acerbius in front of him.

“You fool!” the local cackled, gazing at the completely intact ceiling “How can you hope to defeat me if you can’t even aim stra-”

The Inquisitor took the opportunity to produce a pistol and shoot the nobleman.

“It’s so cute how people keep being fooled by poor marksmanship,” she commented as the corpse hit the floor. Acerbius straightened his robe, feeling an acute need for Katerina’s vodka. And sleep. “Now, this was quite the killer party, but I’m not feeling particularly well, so I won’t be here to entertain you lot any longer. Matteo, I’m expecting a full report.”

Acerbius gulped audibly.

The guests called for the cleaners and gave the Inquisitor the appropriate farewell gestures, which she wasn’t particularly interested in returning. Some of the especially two-faced nobles even wished her well.

“What an evening,” the Inquisitor elbowed Acerbius, nearly knocking him over “House Soudain is going to be licking my boots for quite a while yet.”

“For certain,” the scribe nodded, entirely unsure how to even begin talking about the rat poison.

“Your brew proved very useful,” she continued “You won’t believe how easy it is to convince people to share my juice bottle.”

“It is rat poison. Are you . . ?”

“Ill? In truth not, unless you count my insanity,” the woman shrugged “Why did you come to the party, though? Never would’ve taken you for the debaucherous type.”

“Er,” Acerbius began, thinking of how he could spin the story differently. With his teammates also knowing, that was not an option. “Well. I and Manfred weren’t sure you knew the synth-juice in the bottle was actually poison, so I decided to check. My lady.”

“So my paranoia is infectious?” the Inquisitor chuckled. Acerbius found nothing about his situation funny. “Good to see you’re developing an innate distrust of your fellow human and inhuman beings. That might extend your life by quite a bit. I hope the papers are done, at least.”

“About that,” said Acerbius and began recounting his misadventures.

“You know, you could’ve just left Manfred with the papers,” the woman said after she had finished laughing “And instructions to not write on the actual documents.”

“Hindsight is a bitch,” the scribe concluded “I am terribly sorry for my continued incompetence, lady. I hope your, uh, master plan wasn’t terribly disturbed.”

“Apologies are a waste of space,” she made a dismissive hand motion “If you have a problem, fix it. No, my plan is going pretty well, as you’ll probably see tomorrow.”

The strange duo made their way to the rented room, barely encountering anyone along the way. After checking the barely-large-enough-for-a-noble’s-bathtub hovel for listening devices, poison, assassins and signs of theft, Acerbius found Katerina already waiting for him.

“Did you find my papers?” he asked. Unfortunately, all the vodka was gone so he couldn’t ask her for that.

“Yeah, they’re here,” she drawled “Oh, hey there, boss. How many people did ya kill on the dancefloor?”

“Only one,” the Inquisitor shot a sly glance at Acerbius “But that was more than enough to make House Soudain my bitch.”

“Was that your master plan?” Katerina raised a tired eyebrow “You know, the one you never share and expect us to not ruin?”

“No, that was pure improvisation,” the woman shrugged “Which wouldn’t have happened had Acerbius not had a sudden, inexplicable bout of paranoia.”

“My concern was entirely adequate, given the situation,” the man protested, though not very vehemently. Being willfully contrarian around an Inquisitor was not good for one’s health.

“That’s what all the conspiracy nuts say,” his boss laughed, as was her natural reaction to anything, up to and including getting punched in the face by a space marine. To be fair, it had been a particularly light punch, only breaking her jaw, nose, cheekbone and dislodging several teeth. “So, Katerina, why aren’t you helping Manfred? You’re always such a show-off.”

“I might have tried too hard,” the psyker admitted reluctantly.

Acerbius took the opportunity to remove himself from the scene and go to bed. The ‘bedroom’ was, in fact, a closer with several bunks nailed to the wall, but the scribe had slept in worse conditions. With him, he had the documents, which still required a few tweaks.

“Might have,” the Inquisitor nodded, grinning like the piece of shit she was “Ah, where would I be without my collection of incompetent jackasses? Unaware of the true value of proper Ru’shan vodka, most likely.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Katerina insisted, fooling no one but herself “Boss, you’re exactly the kind of incompetent jackass you say we are. Maybe if you had actually told Acerbius you were taking his rat poison, none of this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, I never said the collection didn’t include myself,” the woman shrugged, smiling smugly.

“Who did you need to poison, anyway?” Katerina pressed further “And why not something more potent?”

“I suppose I might as well tell you, given how much trouble you’ve gotten into,” the Inquisitor explained, after checking the room for listening devices for a second time “Rat poison looks and smells remarkably like synth-juice. Because it’s not particularly high-tech, it’s feasible for a random ganger or thug to manufacture. Because it was my bottle that I also drank from, it didn’t look suspicious. I pretended I was feeling ill so none would suspect I knew the bottle was poisoned. If my intended target dies, I can additionally blame someone for poisoning me and them by proxy, getting rid of another unwelcome element.”

“You still haven’t told me who you poisoned.” the psyker noted.

“Oh, just a well-off cult leader,” she made a dismissive gesture “I’m planning to implicate his second in command. She wanted to usurp his job, or so I’ve let some patsies insinuate.”

“Good thing our glorified typewriter didn’t screw anything up,” Katerina nodded “While me and Manfred were tracking down the handbag, we came across some cultist. The Liberation Front, they were called. Heard anything of those? Manfred went to check out their base.”

“I’ve just poisoned their leader,” the Inquisitor revealed how little she really told her underlings. Katerina was like her dog on a leash, always being told what to do, but never why. “I hope he dies. If not, at least his right hand will be gone. Picts of their stronghold will certainly prove useful when we’ll be clearing them out, soon. Try to get some rest before then, danger magnet.”

“Ugh,” said Katerina, but didn’t protest the nickname.

How lucky that this time, things had worked out in each others’ favor. But she knew that luck wouldn’t last, even if it had brought her to this point mostly intact. Someday - someday soon, most likely - the Inquisitor’s paranoia would lead to a grave miscalculation.

Unacceptable. Katerina needed to keep herself better informed.

**Author's Note:**

> the staggering incompetence of the lead characters is intentional. please don't think i'm unaware that they're all morons.
> 
> A bit on naming: Acerbius's name comes from acerbus, which is apparently latin for bitter. Acerbus has also apparently been used as a name, but I added an i to make it sound better. Katerina's full name is actually Katerina Kirillovna Kiselyeva, but she's not in a place where patronymics are important. It is also important to note that Katerina is not an actual Russian name. The inquisitor remains unnamed because I've been referring to her without one for so long, it's starting to become comfortable.


End file.
